It Never Ends
by CynicalModerate
Summary: S7 AU. It is finished. They killed the final Leviathan. It was supposed to be simple - but it never ends. They never get a break.


**A/N: Take 2. A while ago** I read the articles in which Sera Gamble was interviewed and confirmed Castiel was, indeed, dead. And for some reason, the first version of this fic came out. Not knowing what would occur earlier on in this rather lack-luster season, it was basically how _I_ would have ended Season 7. Yet...the fic was not well received by many, who felt that the Winchesters were severely OOC and that this would never happen, etc. etc. For the most part, I just forgot about this and left it ambiguous as to whether I would return to it or not. And then last night I re-read it, and actually _liked_ it. So I decided I would go back and edit it a little, then flesh out a little more. ****

****Thus, Take 2. So, R&R, and tell me how much you hate it. It is obviously AU - but before you tell me how bad it is, let me remind you that it couldn't be any worse than this current season.****

* * *

><p>It was finally over.<p>

The Host of Heaven soared magnificently overhead and cast gauzy shadows on the vast ooze-stained field below, fluttering amalgamations of the divine and human against skies thick with dark, pregnant clouds. Below black-eyed demons prowled about in their meatsuits and waited, twitching, eager for more slaughter regardless if it was more of the titanic behemoth they just killed or their own kind. But their carnage was held in check by the red-eyed glare of their king, who stood imperiously amid the swarming masses and waited.

They all waited.

The eyes of Heaven and Hell sat fixed on lone three men in the center of the devastated field, where great craters and broken earth was at its worst. Three men standing among steaming black globs and twitching remains the enemy; three men who had done the impossible and united angels and demons against a common threat; creatures that had nearly unraveled the very fabric of creation.

Leviathans.

Two of those men, wandering brothers, had rallied the celestial and infernal forces to march against the third, a man they had once been considered a friend, a companion, a brother. A man who had once been more than just a man, someone who had been one of the heavenly creatures above, a Son of the Most High. At one time, the Host had thought him to be their new leader, a chosen of God. A man who had taken in the host of souls from Purgatory, proclaimed himself God, then fallen so far.

Fallen to the Earth, and became man.

Huddled and naked with thin but powerful arms wrapped around his lanky form, bright blue eyes peered out from under a heavy brow and at the silver barrel of the Colt leveled at him. The dark end still smoked from where the bullet that had ended the battle left and tore itself through his body, freeing him of the final Leviathan.

"It's gone," he rasps in a voice so familiar to the two brothers, low and gravelly. "It's gone. You killed it."

When the barrel isn't lowered he looks up into the green eyes focused on him, questioning. In them he finds such anger and grief, but above them all…

…exhaustion.

"Dean?" he says.

The Colt isn't lowered and the once-angel looks around at the swarming demons and picks out the smug face of one he knows very well, a crystal glass of amber liquid lazily gripped in his hand and cool red-eyes watching. For a moment he wants to believe the reason that the gun hasn't been lowered is because of another deal, another bargaining move by the well-dressed demon to force the brothers' hands. But he knows that isn't the case. Tearing his gaze away he looks back to gun, and then the green eyes.

"It's gone, Dean," he says again, trying to be reassuring in tone.

"Yeah, I know," whispers Dean.

Blue eyes dart to the giant of a man beside Dean, who is rigid with checked emotion. "Sam…?"

He just looks away.

"I'm mortal, Dean," he says, pleadingly. "I am; there's…there's nothing left of Leviathan or my Grace. I'm just…"

"Human," says Dean quietly, weighing the word heavily before chuckling. "But you're not human, are you? You're just a depowered angel stuck in his meat-puppet."

There is so much hatred in Dean's voice, and it's all directed at him. "Dean-"

The Colt shakes violently, a warning not to speak. "Somehow, instead of doing us a favour and _dying_ with Leviathan, you held on and became…_this_."

_Favour?_ he thinks, face dropping terribly and feeling a twist in his chest. But he doesn't say anything, because it won't help. Already, he knows how this is going to end.

"So what now?" asks Dean, his voice gruff and rising slightly. "Are we supposed to pick you up and take you home, teach you to resemble something that's human, that has a soul, that feels like we feel? You want your favourite pets to save you and care for you?"

_Favourite pets_.

He remembers those words from the beginning of this, intoxicated with power and hurt by what he perceived was the brothers' betrayal and lack of faith in him. Having the words turned back on him stung in such a way tears rose in his eyes and burned, blurring his vision.

"I'm sorr-"

"_Don't. You. Say. It._"

Each word is spat out through grit teeth, punctuated with a jut of the gun. Dean stares at the crouched man and watches him shiver as a warm wind blows across the battle scarred field, the silence between them broken only by the murmuring of anxious demons and the beating wings of angels. He feels his finger squeezing the trigger and so much of the last year – of all the years of his life – weighs down and begs him to pull it.

And a tiny voice in the back of his head asks him to turn the barrel on himself when it's all over.

But then there is a weight on his forearm and he feels pressure, and slowly he watches as his hand is brought down and the barrel is pointed to the ground. Dean looks over into the matching pair of green eyes, seeing the understanding in them. Sam, who has reasons of his own to pull the trigger, to hate this huddled once-angel, understands his anger and hurt. Sam, who's spent the last year trying to build some semblance of normalcy from the shattered wall of Death and memories of Hell, feels all the same things as he does.

Still, he shakes his head.

"Dean," he says lowly, a bracing hand placed on his brother's shoulder, "Dean, its over."

The brothers lock eyes for a second. Just a second, but that is all that was needed.

"Do you know what I felt when Leviathan said you were dead?" asks Dean, not looking over at the fallen angel. When no answer comes the angry face turns back, wanting the other man to speak.

"Do you?" he shouts, and the blue-eyed man flinches before shaking his head.

"Relief," comes the answer, the word traveling on a croaking voice. Then there is bitter laughter that sounds even more horrible to the shivering man and makes him looks down at the ground in shame.

"I was fucking relieved," laughs Dean, staring up at the dark sky. "I was…so relieved you were dead. Because it meant I didn't have to worry – it meant you got away, even if it meant you were dead, _you got away_. I- we could just find this goddamn thing and kill it without having to worry about you. It would be over then. I didn't…I didn't have to care."

The blue-eyes stay focused on the ooze-stained ground before him, feeling too shamed to look up. And then there is an angry holler and a boot to his shoulder, and he grunts as he is sent sprawling back onto the ground. Something wet squishes against his back and pain flares, finding himself look up at the winged forms above, circling like carrion pickers. A shadow covers him and then there is a heavy weight on his torso along with a gun barrel pressed under his chin.

"Dean!" calls Sam, and he feels the weight on him shifting violently before it settles again. He focuses on the shadow that now obscures his sight, seeing the deep green eyes and sun-kissed face once again, now twisted in barely contained fury.

"But here you are!" he shouts, digging the barrel into the man's jaw. "You miserable little child! You just won't stay dead! It should have been easy – this part should have been easy. We spent the last year trying to stay alive and find a way to kill this thing, finally finding it and then having to build an army of friggin' angels and demons so we could have a chance of getting close, picking off all seven one by one until we found the big boss – _but this was supposed to be the easy part!_"

Dean glances down and looks at the cauterized wound in the man's chest, a bullet wound that had killed the final Leviathan but left something behind.

"Now we're stuck with you," he says miserably, looking up back up into the tortured face.

"Dean," he says, unable to get his voice above a whisper.

The hunter shakes his head. "Don't say it."

"I'm sorry," he says anyway, "It was never supposed to be like this."

Dean just stares for the longest time with a look of unbelief on his face. "How was it supposed to be?" he asks. The other man doesn't have an answer for him.

"So we're stuck with you," says Dean again after a moment, lowering the gun and sitting up though still on the once-angel's torso. "Thing is…I don't _want_ you."

There are words that can kill – this he knows. Obscure, esoteric, occult words composed for the sole purpose of killing. Witches, demons, angels, monsters, all have at one time come across them and used them against another. As Dean climbs off of him and turns back to Sam, he wishes Dean had uttered one of those words instead the ones he just spoke. It would have hurt far less.

"What is going to happen?" he is surprised when his sentence comes out a sob, broken and wavering, and he almost can't find the strength to sit up. "Are you going to kill me?"

Dean doesn't answer at first, walking away and kneeling down to root around in a pack just a few feet away. He rises slowly and turns back, looking at the folded piece of cloth in his hands for a moment before exchanging a miserable look with Sam. Dean grips it tightly and unfolds it, walking it over to Castiel and laying the brown material upon the man's shoulders almost reverently.

A trench coat still stained with blood and black ooze, but a trench coat nonetheless. He pulls it on and covers his naked form, pulling the front closed and for the first time understanding the concept of modesty. He looks up at the brothers and finds them staring him sadly, while Dean shakes his head.

"No, I'm not going to kill you," says Dean, crossing his arms. He sighs heavily, assessing the broken form in front of him. "No, Castiel, I'm going to leave you just the way you are."

Castiel. Not Cas; Castiel.

"We're tired, Castiel," says Sam, looking from his brother to the fallen angel. "Of everything. We're tired of the game; we're tired of betrayals and losing friends, of the never-ending stream of bad guys who can't wait to screw up the world. Honest to God, We just…don't want to do this anymore."

"If you're around," says Dean, "We'll never get away from it. This way, we have a chance. And it's selfish. It's probably one of the most selfish things we've ever done - I know that. But honestly? I don't give a crap anymore."

They stare at one another for a moment longer before both brothers turn and look at the armies of Heaven and Hell. It's Dean who address them, the righteous soul with a heart of darkness that's able to hold their attention.

"We're done!" he shouts, holding his hands out. "No more angels! No more demons! No more wars or deals or Heaven or Hell! It's. OVER!"

There is solitary clapping and all three men turn their head to look at the approaching form. Red-eyes banished, Crowley takes a large gulp of his glass and saunters over to the trio, smiling wide.

"Bravo," he says, ignoring Castiel completely. "You've slain the beast – the world is once again in your debt and no one will ever know."

"You will," says Sam, narrowing his eyes, "and you'll remember it forever."

"Oh? Why's that?"

Dean brings the gun up and pulls the trigger, burying a slug in Crowley's shoulder. The demon howls and drops his glass to clutch the wound.

"Shit!" he roars, looking up at the brothers in fury. "Was that really necessary, you miserable fucking…?"

Dean lowers the gun reluctantly and juts a finger at the demon. "Remember that, Crowley," he says lowly, "and remember this day. Because if you don't and any of your business comes our way again, that bullet will be in your head."

Crowley straightens and lets out a shuddering breath. "Fine," he spits, turning his gaze onto the fallen angel. "What about him?"

Castiel feels the panic rise in his chest but clamps down on it quickly, instead looking to Dean for an answer. But all he finds is resignation, exhaustion, disgust, and his stomach drops when the hunter just waves a hand dismissively.

"I…don't care," he says.

He turns.

And walks away.

"Dean, please, I'm sorry-"

"You killed Bobby, Castiel," says Dean, still walking.

Sam catches up to him and grabs his shoulder. "Dean, it wasn't-"

Dean whirls and smacks Sam's hand away. "You know, it may have been Leviathan that tore him apart, but _he_ let it out." He jabs a finger at Castiel, fury blazing in his eyes. "_You_ opened Purgatory! _You_ took those souls! _You_ killed him! It was wearing _your_ face when it killed him! You _killed my dad!_ You say you're sorry? _Good! I hope you're sorry for the rest of your pathetic life!_"

The hunter stalks away with Sam on his heels, demon's parting before them in fear and watching him go. But suddenly Dean stops and turns once again and looks straight at Castiel, and it's then that the once-angel realizes that whatever friendship, whatever 'profound bond' they once shared was irrevocably severed.

"When you do die, Castiel," shouts Dean, spit flying from his lips, "It'll be too soon. I hope you live a long, _long_life!"

And then they are gone, one last longing look from Sam before their forms are swallowed by the pressing host of demons that are eager for some punishment.

"Now," says Crowley, sadistic glee oozing in his voice, "what to do with _you?_"

"Just kill me," mutters Castiel miserably. "I…I don't want to be here, anymore."

A dark chuckle escapes from the demon as he hunches down on his heels beside the man. "Well, that's the thing," says Crowley, looking about. "I thought about killing you, _Cas_-"

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, I'm sorry, _Cas,_" sneers Crowley. "Frankly I could give a flying fuck about what you want. You screwed me over and then – for your albeit brief stint as Supreme Being – you had the unmitigated _gall_ to make me your pet! Like some dime-store Satan, you treated me!"

Crowley sighs and shakes his head. "What's worse is you didn't even have the balls to carry through with it. You gave it all up…for the two people who just threw you to the wolves."

Castiel pulls at the trench coat and sobs, closing his eyes against the sounds of beating wings and muttering voices. He feels sick when the demon lays a hand on his back, patting comfortingly.

"There, there," soothes Crowley, "Uncle Crowley's going to give you the chance to make it all better."

Castiel looks at him and frowns underneath all his tears, not believing for a minute that the demon will actually help him. "What are you going to do to me?"

Crowley smiles his wicked smile. "Well, I'm _not_ going to kill you. Death is far too good for you. No, I think there is something much more suited to the situation at hand. But I've got to run it by my compatriot first."

He rises to his feet and cranes his head back to fix dark eyes on one of the soaring forms in particular before bringing his fingers to his lips and giving a sharp whistle. It is a moment before the sound of beating wings grows louder and one is able to be singled out from the rest; before long Castiel sees a lone man in a black suit with shock-white hair standing in front of the demon-king.

"Zephkiel," whispers Castiel.

The angel pays him no attention but rather keeps sharp brown eyes locked on Crowley. "What do you want, demon?"

Crowley checks his watch and raises an eyebrow, face devoid of humor or glee. "Ten minutes till the treaty falls through," he says, business-like, eye shooting up to me the angel's. "What do you say we end this little arrangement on a conciliatory note?"

Zephkiel's face is grim, but his eye show curiosity and question. "In what way?"

Crowley takes one last look at Castiel and winks before he pulls the angel into a huddle to discuss in lowered voices. Castiel does nothing, makes no move to run or try and talk his way free. Because he finds no point – he no longer has family or friends. He is completely alone, and perhaps one of the most hated beings on the planet.

"Okay, _Cas_, he's the deal," says Crowley, turning around and walking back up to the fallen angel. He rubs his hands together and smiles like a trader who's just made the deal of the century. "Zephkiel here and I have come to an agreement, and that agreement is we're not going to kill you."

Castiel narrows his tear-filled eyes, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

"I know," says Crowley, holding in hands out in mock shock, "quite insane. But the thing is that you and I both know there are things _so_ much worse than death. We've decided to give you that."

Castiel hisses as a scratching burn erupts all over his body, and as he looks down he sees bloody wording etching across his skin. He knows what this is and looks up at Crowley in horror and confusion.

"It's a deal," grumbles the demon darkly," and it won't even cost you your…well, soul, or whatever you have now. You see, your little pet inspired me with his 'when you die it'll be too soon' speech. He's right – death will come all too soon for you, and in the state you're in you're liable to off yourself the first chance you get."

Crowley walks back over to Castiel and hunches back down on his heels, reaching forward and taking the man's wrist with surprising tenderness. The demon's fingertips dance over the bloody words etched along the inside of his forearm, a smirk playing on his lips. Then blood red-eyes snap up and burning into the brilliant blue, cruel and empty.

"You see…Zephkiel and I both had the same thought at first," whispers Crowley, the air suddenly icy cold. "We thought, 'Let him die and then we'll tear his soul apart afterward, make a sport of it'. But then I realized there is no guarantee we could get a hold of you, or that you even _have_a soul. Then old Dean spoke and…I was _moved._ After everything you've put us through, you don't deserve death, _Cas_. So instead…we condemn you to _life_."

Castiel's eyes widened and he tries to pull his arm out of the demon's grip but was unable to, their strength too uneven. The fallen angel looked at Zephkiel pleadingly.

"Brother, please-"

But the angel snarls angrily, cutting him off. "You are not my God; Castiel," he says cruelly, "and you are _not_my brother. Not anymore."

A painful squeeze had him looking back to Crowley, who grinned sadistically. "Condemned to life," he repeats, then adds, "everlasting. No blade or gun or weapon that exists or will exist can free you from it. You will live, _Cas_, until all the lights in the heavens go out. And considering we tore up the script on the whole Apocalypse, that's going to be a v_ery_ long time."

Crowley shoves the man back and rises, turning to the horde of disappointed demons. "Get out of here," he snarls, waving his hands off. "Go on! Get! We're done here!"

The demon turns back to Zephkiel and bows his head slightly. "Well, another disaster averted, my feathered friend – I guess the next time we meet there won't be a blood spell keeping us from gutting one another?"

Zaphkiel gives the demon a disdainful look and turns, a fluttering of wings the only sound of his departure. Crowley looks upward and finds the skies bare of the heavenly host, and gives a huff.

"And here thought we were becoming friends," he mutters, looking back down at Castiel and shrugging. The King of Hell shoves his hands into his pockets tilts his head to the side.

"The words'll fade in an hour or so," he says, referring to the deal carved into the man's skin "by then you should be somewhere among…well, your kind now. _Humans_."

Crowley leans in and put his lips next to Castiel's ear. "Maybe they'll teach you how to get on in life, maybe not. I look forward to seeing how you do. See you around, _Cas_."

The demon shocks him by giving him a peck on the cheek before disappearing, leaving Castiel alone among the stinking, oozing remains of Leviathan. He remains crouched there in the field for a long time, watching the words fade from bloody-red to a light pink and then disappearing all together. When that happens he just stares at the skin; soon coming to the realization that this is _his_ skin now.

Forever.

With that thought and a foreign rumbling in his gut, Castiel rises to his feet and begins to walk. Somewhere down the road, he finds a diner where a kind waitress named Nora notices his lack of clothing and limited social skills. After her shift, she takes him to Christ the Savior Lutheran Church and gets him some clothing that is close to his size. He will not give up the trench coat, not event to clean – for him, it is the only link he has to his old life and the frie-_family_ he once had. Taking him back to the diner, Nora feeds him dinner and tries to discover more about this mysterious man.

She doesn't understand why he breaks down into a sobbing mess when she places a piece of apple pie in front of him.

* * *

><p>It is two days before either of the Winchester brothers say anything.<p>

They go through the motions; eat, sleep, and drive. There is no music blasted, and the rumble of the Impala's engine is no longer a source of comfort to either of them. Instead, it sounds like an accusing beast which will not permit them the luxury of forgetting what happened for even a moment. The road sliding underneath them just keeps reminding them of not what lies ahead, but rather behind. It is Sam who breaks first, speaking for the first time in strained, horrified croak.

"Dean…we just _left_ him."

Dean says nothing – he can't. He made his decision back in that field, and something inside him refuses to allow him to acknowledge it. So he lies to himself for a little longer and grips the steering wheel tighter, foot becoming heavier as he sends them both farther and faster down the road, trying to outrun his guilt.

* * *

><p>With a powerful and sudden intake of air, Castiel finds himself alive again.<p>

The weight of his body is oppressive as he feels himself sliding back into the prison that has become his body, feeling the cool air caress his sweat-soaked skin and the soft fibers of the shag carpet beneath his back. The pungent sour smell of bile fills his nose and he finally opens his eyes, lifting his head a moment to find himself covered in vomit and half-dissolved pills before letting it drop back to the floor in defeat. He's not sure what to do and to be honest, he just can't find the resolve to get up, instead deciding just to lie there and stare up at the ceiling for a while. The dim light tells him it is earlier morning, meaning he's been dead for a couple of hours at least.

Well, not really dead.

He can never be really dead.

The thought brings a fresh wave of depression over him and tears prick at the back of his eyes, bitter, angry tears that he can't direct at anyone or anything else. Always the anger is turned inward toward himself, exacerbated by the fact that no matter how many times he's tried he can't die, can't be free of this world and this body. He lets out a measured breath of air, careful not to let it dissolve into a sob or he would come undone once again, and slowly but surely becoming aware of the burning itch on the inside of his arm. He tries to ignore it, but the itch increases to a throbbing and he lifts his arm up with a growl. Grotesque scarlet lettering is etched across his skin, the writing flowing and precise.

_5 years and 147 failed attempts. You're starting to lose your creativity, Cas._

The words seem to sense that they have been read and slowly fade away, leaving behind pale skin marred by crisscrossing lines of mottled flesh. Castiel lets his arm drop across his stomach, his nose slightly wrinkling at the damp feel of his t-shirt before closing his eyes and taking another measured breath.

"5 years," he whispers.


End file.
